He has Becky.
Bunco moves quickly; it’s a game without strategy, which makes it perfect for socializing. The first round’s over before I know it. Max takes my cup and mixes me a refill while I switch seats for the second round. I’ve found my spot by the time he returns with my cup. He has to lean over me to place it on the table, and as he does, his arm brushes my bare shoulder. I’m almost positive it’s intentional, and my skin erupts in a flurry of goose bumps.
“Thanks,” I say, tipping my head to look at him. His eyes are dark as rain clouds; the word brooding pops into my head. “How’re you doing?”
“I’ve won four of six. I think that’s pretty good.” He peeks at my card, sees my one measly win, then laughs, dropping a hand to my shoulder. “Bunco’s not your thing, huh?”
The warmth of his palm seeps into my skin and wit fails me. I scan the basement for my dad and find him at the bar with Marcy and Mrs. Rolon, the bottle blond who lives down the street. He’s refilling their wineglasses, laughing at something Marcy’s just said, oblivious to the fact that the neighbor kid is giving his daughter heart palpitations with a shoulder squeeze.
“It’s cool,” Max tells me. “I’m doing well enough for the both of us.”
I try to recall the last time he and I were us.
Dad’s voice carries over the clamor of conversation: “Tables, everyone!”
I turn to find him staring at me. He doesn’t look happy. Maybe because of our earlier discussion, or maybe because I’m with the very boy he expressly told me to stay away from. I don’t care either way, but apparently Max does.
He snatches his hand away. “I should, uh, find my seat.”
“Okay,” I say, sorry to see him go.
I try to appear useful and collected, not flustered and tipsy. I rearrange the dice. I reposition the snack bowl. I make needless marks on my scorecard. My pulse resumes a seminormal pace as the three empty seats at my table fill.
Time for round two.
9
THE EVENING PASSES, DICE ARE ROLLED, DRINKS are downed.
At halftime, I escape up the stairs, buzzed and oddly buoyant.
Behind the locked door of the powder room, I assess my reflection in the mirror. My hair holds the curl I coaxed into it, but I’m critical of my scarlet cheeks and the longing that shines too bright in my eyes. There’s no denying that Max’s attention makes me feel good, but it makes me edgy, too. He’s going through a rocky time and as of tonight, I am, too. Plus there’s his girlfriend, who’d explode in a ball of fiery rage if she caught her boyfriend and me flirting.
I take a long swallow of my drink, then a few deep breaths, trying to break up the knot of worry that’s landed in my stomach. The girl in the mirror stares at me, wild-eyed and wanting.
There’s a knock on the bathroom door, and I remember: there’s a party in full swing downstairs. I wash my hands, comb my fingers through my hair, and smooth on a fresh layer of lip gloss. As I’m slipping the tube back into my pocket, the door clatters with another knock. I yank it open, ready to give whoever so obviously lacks patience a piece of my mind, but it’s Max who stands in the hall. He gives me a discomfited smile and steps aside so I can join him.
“Took you long enough,” he says. “What the hell were you doing in there?”
I give a cryptic raise of my eyebrows.
He chuckles and lifts his hands in surrender. “Okay, never mind.”
“What are you doing up here?”
“I’m ready for another,” he says, showing me his empty cup. “Your dad gave me a look last time I went near the coolers. There’s beer in the kitchen, right?”
“Yep. Come on.”
He follows me into the empty kitchen, where I take a beer from the fridge and hand it to him. He twists the top and takes a long pull. I watch with interest as he swallows, his throat bobbing in a way that’s far sexier than anything I’ve seen in my seventeen years.
He sets his bottle on the counter. “Headed back down?”
“In a few minutes.”
“Avoiding the crowd?”
“Something like that.”
He hoists himself up to sit on the countertop, the spot where Kyle and I mixed brownie batter this afternoon. “Mind if I hang out till the break’s over?”
My heart, the mutinous thing, dances a two-step. “Yeah. Okay.”
He takes another swig of beer, then asks, “So? You having fun?”
For a nanosecond, I consider telling him about my lost money, the pastry-chef piece of my heart that’s been ripped out and stomped on. But then, “Uh, I guess.”
“I am. I always have fun when you’re around, Jilly.”
I guzzle my drink, his breathy words replaying in my head. My face is so hot. Because of him? The rum?
“We should hang out more often,” he says. “You and me. It’s never just you and me anymore.”
“Yeah, well, your friends keep you busy. So does your girlfriend.”
He shrugs. I try to get a handle on his expression, which is a lot like attempting to read hieroglyphics. “Still,” he says. “I miss you.”
My stomach takes a nosedive, landing somewhere in the vicinity of my toes. “What am I supposed to say to that, Max?”
“Nothing. It’s cool.”
Clearly it isn’t. I don’t know whether to celebrate or cry.
He saves me from the probable humiliation of jamming my foot into my mouth. “So, Bunco … I had no idea this game was so cutthroat.”
“Right?” I say, glad for the change of subject. “You’d think we were playing for blood instead of cash.”
He hops down from the counter and gestures for my cup. I pass it to him and he fills it three-quarters with ice and Coke. “I’ll fix this for you downstairs,” he says. “You ready?”
I nod, then trail behind him, through the kitchen and into the living room. But he stops suddenly, just short of the stairs, and I almost crash into him as he pivots to face me. “Listen,” he says, pushing a hand through his hair. “What happened on the quad a few weeks ago, Becky being Becky, treating you like shit…”
“Max, I’ve forgotten all about that.”
“Yeah, well, I haven’t.”
“You don’t—”
He holds up a hand. “Just let me, okay? I’m not excusing her, but she has her reasons for acting the way she does, which mostly have to do with me. Ivy’s not helping, either, but none of that matters because my point is, I was a dick for not stepping in. I should’ve told her to shut up.” He runs a palm over his face; he looks supremely uncomfortable—a lot like how I feel. “Anyway, I just … I wish it hadn’t gone down like that, and I’m sorry.”
His admission of fault is stunning—I can’t remember the last time he accepted culpability for anything. But I don’t want to talk about Becky. Not tonight. Not ever. “It’s fine,” I manage.
“You sure?”
“Of course. I’ve let it go.” I mean it—I’m going to forget my frustrations concerning him and Becky. Him and me.